Random Prompt #10

[Tiger the Lion]

Write a poem inspired by a relative. (a drunk uncle, a wise grandmother, a domineering father etc.)

Bonus points for using the words "pen," "licorice," and/or "bicycle." 

*** a reminder that prompts are not rigid. Poems about fruitcake, slippers or nasal congestion will not be considered out of place.  

Go!

[TranquillityBase]

Good morning Tiger,

I just noted that you posted this prompt in Poetry for Fun.  What I wrote is decidedly not "fun".  I don't want to spoil the mood, so I'm posting it in Miscellaneous.  I'll check more carefully in the future.

TqB

[Lizzie]

The Third and Fourth Generation
   ~Numbers 14:18


Grandpa drove north in early summer,
never calling ahead.
He'd surprise us with late evening arrival,
expecting dinner.
Mom would make him another supper—
that's how she was raised.

His dad left him without any warning,
when he was very young.
His grandmother fed him without complaint—
that's how she was raised.

His grandfather's closest friend was opium.
They bonded during the civil war
over musket fire and a gangrenous leg
that never fully healed.
They swapped war stories in silence
of the departed who wouldn't die.
It vanished in 1906—
pulled from the drug store's shelves.

He wept to his wife too many times,
and she told him, "Just go ahead
and do it already."
Grandpa found him the next morning
after tending the chicken pen, 
hanging by his neck from a cross-beam in the barn.

Grandpa would start wearing slippers
the last week of August.
My brother and I would wake unaware
to a crisp, windy morning,
mom's face left behind 
to tell us that he drove off during the night.

That's how he raised us, with unsparing rod:
grandfathers vanish, so don't ever care.

[dukealien]

Calendar Detritus


My calendar abounds in birthdays
celebrating lives which also ended
on specific dates now unremarked.

Time, I think, to halt this automatic
notice-taking other than perhaps
for those I’m glad to have outlived.

One in particular, good company
at times but now as then become in his
inimitable way, good absence.

[Mark A Becker]

I loved licorice Good and Plenty,
and probably ate way too many.

My teeth didn't think it was funny,
and now I have hardly any.

[Tiger the Lion]

5 Loves

uncle Kev loved women

ale
cigarettes
football

and the Queen 

he surrendered three
only to be stripped of another
 
there's only Everton now

[Lizzie]

Sestina

Grandma never baked her fruitcake
once her children all left home. In slippers
padding through the house, she sipped her coffee,
humming opera verse from memory. Headaches
came and went with memories, sniffles
blamed on onions sliced for supper. Pennies

once bought licorice—her penny
jar sat full enough to stuff a fruitcake,
sweet with artificial flavor. Sniffles
came from having grandkids; slippers
warmed her fevered feet. My mom got headaches
frequently, so Grandpa brewed the coffee

strong when I stayed over. Sips of coffee
were a treat—her teaspoon held a penny.
Sometimes, mother's mind got lost in headaches;
she would say she always hated fruitcake.
Shrinking down, she swam inside her slippers—
thin as pens, she always had the sniffles.

I'd pretend to get the sniffles,
ask real sweet for Tylenol. The coffee
kept me up with worries, loud as slippers
slapping bare linoleum. A penny
wouldn't pay for decent fruitcake—
Grandpa's jabs gave dad a headache.

Grandpa joked that we were headaches,
feeding kids cost more than just a sniffle.
Unemployed, my dad could not buy fruitcake.
Every day brought Jeopardy and coffee,
guessing Price is Right, but wrong by pennies.
Grandma's lap was plush as Christmas slippers.

Wheel of Fortune's word was slippers
on the night we learned the headaches
vanished. Mom gave Grandpa pennies,
payment for our food and all the sniffles
she'd been spared while we were sipping coffee,
unaware she'd turned to fruitcake.

Grandma's slippers dream where there's no sniffles.
I cure all my headaches sipping coffee.
I'd pay any penny for her Christmas fruitcake.

[TranquillityBase]

The Third and Fourth Generation
   ~Numbers 14:18


Grandpa drove north in early summer,
never calling ahead.
He'd surprise us with late evening arrival,
expecting dinner.
Mom would make him another supper—
that's how she was raised.

His dad left him without any warning,
when he was very young.
His grandmother fed him without complaint—
that's how she was raised.

His grandfather's closest friend was opium.
They bonded during the civil war
over musket fire and a gangrenous leg
that never fully healed.
They swapped war stories in silence
of the departed who wouldn't die.
It vanished in 1906—
pulled from the drug store's shelves.

He wept to his wife too many times,
and she told him, "Just go ahead
and do it already."
Grandpa found him the next morning
after tending the chicken pen, 
hanging by his neck from a cross-beam in the barn.

Grandpa would start wearing slippers
the last week of August.
My brother and I would wake unaware
to a crisp, windy morning,
mom's face left behind 
to tell us that he drove off during the night.

That's how he raised us, with unsparing rod:
grandfathers vanish, so don't ever care.

Hi Lizzie,

Just a note to say how much I enjoyed (and was impressed by) this poem.  I've re-read it many times, just to re-experience it.  Deserves to be workshopped if you're of a mind to do so.

Just one suggestion to start with, concerning the phrase "gangrenous leg/that never fully healed".  Gangrene would have been fatal (I think) had it persisted.  So I think something like "shattered leg" or something else would be more appropriate.

Marvellous details throughout and last lines are unforgettable.

TqB

[Lizzie]

TqB: I will probably workshop it. I have a policy with myself that I don't put something in a workshop until I've let it settle for a least a week, so that I can see some of the flaws for myself and do some last minute tinkering. 

You are probably right about the gangrene issue. Thanks for pointing that out.